


Touch

by juxtapose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Touching, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is touchy. Steve wonders why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, there. Haven't posted since my last chapter of "Through Chaos as it Swirls" (which, by the way, I have to thank you all again for reading and commenting--it really was so fun to write and I'm glad you all seemed to enjoy it). This was a headcanon that sort of expanded into something a tiny bit longer, so I deemed it a oneshot that I could post here. Thanks to EverdeenFrayPotter as per usual for looking this over.  
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own Steve or Tony. Sadly.

Tony always says, “I don’t like to be handed things.”

And yet.

At first, it throws Steve off a little. He’ll be doing something mundane like opening the refrigerator, or reading the newspaper, and suddenly he’ll feel the familiar sensation of Tony’s arms around his waist, fingers in his hair, hands massaging his shoulders. It’s not that it doesn't feel nice—the callous warmth of Tony—but Steve had honestly never pinpointed Tony as the type to display such open intimacy. Not initially, anyway.

But as it turns out, Tony is very touchy.

Steve is consistent in the way he holds Tony (as he is with most things). He always keeps a strong hold on Tony’s waist when he kisses him, slinks his arms around Tony’s middle in the light of the stars at night. Cups Tony’s face in his hands. Tony is wild and unpredictable as he is with most things. Sometimes he’ll flit a hand across Steve’s face before replacing his fingers with his lips. He’ll trace random patterns on the skin of Steve’s arms, splay his hands on Steve’s back and hold on with all his might.

_I don’t like to be handed things._

And yet Steve Rogers was basically handed to him just out of World War II, a little lost and a little shaken and at first, a little resentful. But the latter dissipated over time, and Tony holds Steve in his hands, in his arms, in his eyes, and it’s okay.

* * *

Once, Steve brings it up. Just once.

They’re going over model training areas Tony’s in the process of setting up on the ground floor of Stark Tower. Images blare on the hi-tech screen before them, but all Steve can focus on at present is the way Tony’s fingers glide back and forth on Steve’s hand. He’s got his Thinking Face on, which Steve recognizes all too well now—tilted head, wrinkled brow, and wide eyes filled with little fragments of ideas churning behind them—but not once does he break physical contact.

Steve clears his throat and says, “You like doing this, huh?”

Tony turns to look at him, then back at the screen, then back to Steve. “Um. Computerized simulations? I mean, they’re okay. There was that one time at MIT I did create a pretty kinky version of the Sims for my roommate’s buddy if that’s what you’re getting at, which I totally should’ve patented because look how popular the game is now--”

“I—what?” Steve decides he doesn’t even _want_ to know. “No, I meant . . . _this._ ” He laces Tony’s fingers with his own, lifting their hands a little.

In the few seconds it takes Steve to do this, Tony’s entire body goes rigid. He shakes his head. “I, um. It’s whatever.” He yanks free of Steve’s grip, starting to fiddle with the keyboard, the control panel—anything, evidently, to keep his hands busy.

“Tony.” Steve dips his head, trying to catch Tony’s eye. “Look, I’m sorry if I--”

“No worries,” Tony cuts him off immediately before swerving into fast-paced prattle: “What do you think of reserving this upper section of Room D for Clint to hone in on his archery? Maybe we can make it into a bird’s nest. Complete with some twigs.”

Tony mostly keeps his distance for the remainder of the night. But when four in the morning hits and Steve feels the other side of the bed shift as Tony crawls under the sheets, he keeps his eyes shut and his breathing steady as the sensation of Tony’s fingers laced in his own eventually lulls him back to sleep.

* * *

It’s only after a difficult mission in the middle of January that Steve realizes why Tony’s so touchy. He comes off the Helicarrier bruised and disheveled and so, so tired. Tony’s been here at HQ handling the press all day, and Steve has barely seen him. He vaguely hears Clint mutter something to him, sees Maria Hill sifting through a manila folder with Fury over her shoulder, hears Bruce talking to Nat about how he’s really glad the only property he managed to destroy was half an ice cream shop in the middle of winter.

Steve’s tired. He enters the main floor of HQ. Turns a corner. Heads down the corridor, thinking how collapsing onto something even remotely resembling a bed for even just a few minutes would be very nice--

He’s barely got time to breathe before something launches itself onto him, and before Steve goes into self-defense mode he registers that the object clinging to him is Tony Stark-shaped.

Steve doesn’t try to hide a small smile. Tony is letting his fingers dance along the line of Steve’s cheekbone, the back of his neck, his right shoulder, resting on his chest.

“Hi,” Steve says after a moment, chuckling.

Tony’s voice is muffled against Steve’s neck as he retorts, “Hi, yourself.”

Steve can tell in the glossiness of Tony’s eyes and the scent of his breath that he’s drank enough to get just on the cusp of tipsy. His hands run up and down Steve’s arms, sliding up his back and down again, letting go only long enough to reach up and thread through his hair. Steve can practically feel the desperation in the way Tony glides his hands everywhere he can reach, can feel the slight tremor in the touch.

“You okay?” Steve asks. It’s a loaded question. With Tony you never know. If he answers ‘yes’ it usually means no, and on the rare occasions in which he actually does say ‘no’ it’s all downhill from there.

But Tony merely says, “You’re here.”

Steve frowns. “’Course I’m here. Had you on communication right up until an hour ago when we took off on the Helicarrier. Remember?”

“I wanted,” Tony mutters, “to make sure. Make sure you’re here. Y’know, sometimes I wonder. The way you are, the things you do, I wonder if you’re not something I made up in my head.” It’s an honest admission helped a little along by alcohol, and to anyone else it may not have made much sense, but to Steve, it really does.

Tony wraps his arms around Steve’s middle. Squeezes. Steve runs a hand through Tony’s hair, and understands.

Touch is Tony’s way of saying _I missed you_ or _I’m glad you’re here_ , or occasionally, in the dark when Tony thinks Steve’s asleep as he rests his hand on Steve’s chest to feel his heartbeat, _I love you_. It is his grip on reality, his reassurance, his anchor, speaking the words he doesn't always have the courage to.

“I’m here,” Steve says, and then, for both of them, “I’m home.”

This seems to be enough for Tony, who peers up at him now with a mischievous grin that reaches the crinkles in his eyes. “Good,” he replies, tugging at Steve’s hands, “Let’s make up for lost time, yeah?” Steve stumbles along behind him, smiling goofily in spite of himself and his tired limbs.

It took a while for Steve to define the meaning of ‘home’ since being dragged out of 1943. He realizes, now, that home does not necessarily present itself in the blaring lights of Stark Tower, or in the warmth of his own bed. It is Tony, and his beautifully worn fingers igniting Steve’s skin and his heart.


End file.
